


Devilish Methods

by devetsil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Torture, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devetsil/pseuds/devetsil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's greatest strength might just be alien to Moriarty after all. An alternate version of events in "The Reichenbach Fall." </p><p>'Love could topple empires and force men to their dying knees. And it could also force them to their swords.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devilish Methods

**Author's Note:**

> I found Moffat's description of Sherlock as an "angel with devilish methods", more or less, to be very interesting... It made me wonder what Sherlock could be capable of doing to Moriarty had he not taken that rather sudden and dramatic exit. I originally planned to make this much longer, but I figured that it would essentially devolve into mindless torture porn after a certain point.

"...You may think me an angel, but between the two of us, my methods...no, not so much. I'm not like you." He sucked in a breath and circled the pipe to which Moriarty was currently chained. Sherlock was surprised to find that despite his slender, muscular build, he had comparatively little fight in him. He reckoned that both he and his counterpart would have some interesting bruises to show for it later on. If "later on" were in his future, of course. "I don't destroy like you do. Not really my style, you see. I have reasons." Moriarty's expression seemed to betray some mix of understanding and amusement. Yes, how funny to think of Sherlock Holmes having reasons. And what it meant. Having people. 

There had always been people. Their visages flashed warmly behind Sherlock's eyes and made his chest swell. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, even his brother, his mother, and others still, who gave him their unconditional love. A love without question. It was his greatest strength and weakness. His deepest secret, really, and sometimes even to himself. That unfading care kept the darkest, sharpest parts of him tucked and hidden away, mostly untouchable. As days went on it became harder and harder for him to reach these places in himself that he knew existed. No, that was how they were different, entirely different. Sherlock was loved. Maybe Moriarty was at one point. Probably not any longer.

(It made Sherlock's mind leap from place to place, infinitely curious... what was Moriarty's family like? His relationship with his mother, father, any siblings? Any lovers? Did he have pets or keep animals? Did he kill them?)

Moriarty coughed. Blood stained the corners of his lips in a way that Sherlock found oddly alluring. "Just ordinary, then. And here I thought we _had_ something, you and I. I'm just a bit let down, you know. Plain Sherlock. _Boring_ Sherlock." His smirk turned into a silent, shaking chortle and was only seconds away from becoming a laugh. Something deep inside Sherlock snapped right in two.

"No. No. Never ordinary. No, I can hurt for great reasons, reasons of my own." He had motivators that were far more vicious than ones Moriarty could understand. Moriarty thought that using his own supposed weakness against him would force him into laying down everything, would force him right into his own grave. Love could do that. Love could topple empires and force men to their dying knees. 

And it could also force them to their swords. 

Sherlock quietly untucked a small carving knife from its carrying case in his coat pocket. It was a beautiful vintage sample and had a browned handle carved delicately from antler. It was a gift. Part of a set in exchange for his services with an older client months and months ago. In its previous life it had likely been used to carve up turkey; he'd never really had to utilise it before, as the holidays were still months away. It'd be more useful to John or Mrs. Hudson, anyway. 

Moriarty's eyes widened just slightly at the sight of it. Fear? Curiousity? It was really a wash from Sherlock's perspective. He didn't care. It was remarkably pleasant, how sharp and smooth its blade was between his thumb and forefinger. Very well-maintained and beautiful in its simplicity. One of life's little extras; a practical item with a lovely quality to it. He turned it over in his hand again and stepped closer to where Moriarty was sprawled.

"You owed me a fall from grace and a world of pain. All of them, the three of them, a world of pain," he whispered darkly. "I only thought I'd return the favour." 

"Very sweet of you, Sherlock Holmes. But you know you can't make me do just _anything_." Sherlock was a little surprised to find that the barely restrained chuckles filling the silence were his own this time. There were no more questions needed, then.

"We'll see about that."


End file.
